


Memo for Colonel Sheppard

by sgamadison



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-24
Updated: 2010-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgamadison/pseuds/sgamadison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McKay's memos were legendary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memo for Colonel Sheppard

> **Story Notes:**
> 
>  
> 
> I originally wrote this for a McSheplets challenge (the prompt being 'written words'), but it ended up being too long. My special thanks to the_cephalopod for the quick and dirty beta and keeping my tenses straight.

 

* * *

>   
> Rodney McKay's memos were legendary. Pithy, acerbic, searingly accurate, often funny, sometimes unintentionally so. People tended to live in fear of being on the receiving end of one of these epistles and gleefully hoped they'd be present when one of their co-workers received one. One scientist began calling them "Howlers" after the volatile letters in the Harry Potter books and it was speculated that if McKay could only figure out how to make his memos explode upon receipt, he would do so.
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> The first year of the expedition, paper was in short supply. Yet somehow Rodney never seemed to be without post-it notes. The screaming-yellow missives would appear in a variety of situations—tacked as warnings to dangerous objects, as reminders of proper protocols, as notes questioning the dubious merits of someone's educational background and suggesting that they scrap their current project and start over again from scratch. If something was really important, McKay didn't trust the sticky backing of the post-it note, but adhered it firmly to the object in question with tape, another commodity in short supply to which only McKay seemed to have endless access. He managed to procure poster board from somewhere upon which he posted large placards with warnings and directives to one and all—words printed with one of the ubiquitous Sharpies that he always seemed to have as well. One expedition member (of the biology department, so relatively safe from specific attacks from the CSO) speculated that McKay's laptop case was really the equivalent of Mary Poppins' carpetbag, from which he could produce any needed item at will. A sub-contingent of the biology department took to referring to McKay as the SMP (the Sour Mary Poppins).
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> Most of the time, the notes were received with clenched teeth and a general outburst ("_who does he think he is, anyway_?"), the note itself crumpled up and tossed at the nearest trash receptacle, only to be fished out, smoothed open and snickered over by the nearest witness to its receipt. People would save emails from Rodney on their hard drives and send them to each other. John had snickered over quite a few himself. He'd also had to run interference, especially when Elizabeth had come to him, suggesting that Rodney's method of leaving nasty notes for people wasn't exactly good for morale. John had shrugged. He'd known Elizabeth had come to him because Rodney was on his team and that she presumed that John would be able to diplomatically handle the situation. "He can't be everywhere at once," he'd responded. "Besides, he's right."
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> John himself had never been on the receiving end of a nasty note. He didn't really have to wait for a memo from Rodney—they worked together nearly every day. Rodney's invective usually came first hand, and with it, John could see the worry and concern underlying the caustic arrogance. He still remembered vividly the time during the storm when Koyla was trying to invade the city. John had gone to one of the naquadah generator stations to steal the power supply out from under Koyla. When he arrived, the generator sported a large sign that read "Really, really dangerous" which was underscored, followed by "Don't touch" and "McKay." The lettering was spiky and emphatic, as prickly and decisive as the man himself.
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> At the time, despite the fact that the city was either about to be destroyed by the storm or seized by Koyla's men, John had spared a moment to be amused by the unintentional wording of the note to imply that you shouldn't touch McKay because he was really, really dangerous. Later, lying in his bed that night, the city secure once more and reliving the sound of bodies hitting the shield like bugs in a zapper, he'd stared at the ceiling and thought about the placard again. It made him laugh out loud, the only thing he'd found funny in a really bad day. And he'd indulged himself, wondering what it would have been like to touch McKay, to soothe away the guilt and fear and pain still etched on his features. Like he wished someone would do for him.
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> A few weeks later, he found out. He and Rodney had been the only survivors of an exploratory mission that had gone pear-shaped when they'd run into a ten-thousand year old Wraith. He'd seen the look on Rodney's face when they returned to Atlantis with the bodies of their colleagues. As soon as John had been released from the infirmary, bloody clothes in a neat little plastic bag, he'd made his way to Rodney's quarters. Rodney had been sitting on the edge of his bed in a towel, skin scrubbed pink with hot water in an attempt to erase the day. His face had crumpled like one of his post-it notes when John came in and John had stepped forward without a word to place a hand on Rodney's bowed neck. He had always been pretty good at reading Rodney.
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> So, he'd known that Rodney had been really pissed at him last night. Even though it wasn't his fault. "It's not my fault," he'd whined, as Rodney had helped him back to the quarters provided for the team during their stay on P2F-389.
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> "No, no, not at all. How could it possibly be _your_ fault?" Rodney had growled somewhere near his ear, huffing under the strain of holding him up. He'd waved off Ronon's assistance once they'd reached the sleeping quarters and John had then found it hard to stand. "I mean, just because you're ridiculously good-looking and freakishly charming. Why wouldn't the native girls mistakenly assume you were a gift from the gods sent here specifically to have hazel-eyed, wild-haired, pointy-eared, amazingly-fabulous Sheppard sex with them?"
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> "Precisely," John had enunciated carefully, somehow feeling at the time, that something was very wrong with that statement, but not sure what. "My ears are not that pointy."
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> "Whatever you say, Legolas." Rodney had deposited him rather forcefully on the bed, before stripping off his clothes. "Teyla says the drug they used on you isn't harmful and should wear off by the morning. I hope you have vicious hangover." Rodney had swung John's legs up on the bed and pulled a light covering over him, poking him in the shoulder with his words.
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> John had batted away the hand. "If I wanted 'em, they wouldn't have to drug me," he'd said crossly. Rodney's response had been lost to him, as sleep suddenly overcame his will to continue the argument.
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> Now, opening one bleary eye and wishing someone would just shoot him and put him out of his misery, he rolled over on his side, wincing at the movement. Damn. Still on the planet P2-whatever. His eyelids felt like they were glued to his corneas and his tongue was sticky. He turned his head carefully, hoping against hope there would be a cup of steaming coffee waiting for him on the bedside table, or at the very least, a glass of cold water. Sunlight streamed in between the slats of the bamboo-like shades, illuminating the bright yellow post-it note on the table. With dread, John reached out for the missive.
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> "_You are still an idiot_," it read, words spiky and emphatic as always. "_But you may be right about this one. Don't worry though, I've fixed it_."
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> "What do you mean, you've fixed it?" John said aloud to the empty room. His eye fell on Rodney's electric razor sitting on the table near where he found the note, coarse black hair curling up from the blades. _Oh shit_.
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> Heedless of the hangover, John wrenched the bedding back and stared down at his chest. Just over his left nipple was a newly shaved bald patch. With a permanent marker, Rodney had left a note. "Mine!" it screamed in capital letters. It was signed "McKay".
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> ~fin~


End file.
